


Harellan

by Washedawaycloud



Series: Shiva gara Sael [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Demon possession, Gen, Jayla Shepard, MGiT, Modern Girl in Thedas, Non-Trevelyan Inquisitor, sort of, spirit possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 08:24:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: A mother is a terrifying enemy to make. When that mother is also the Inquisitor of Thedas - well, things can go very poorly indeed. (AU future for Jayla following the events of BFFE, not required reading but a good idea )





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. One of those little off shoot flares that won't let go but will not be happening in 'canon'.

“You attempted to _sell_ my daughters.” Her voice is deceivingly soft and placid as she sits on her throne in Skyhold’s largest hall. For years she had shunned it, sat in it only when she was forced to, but today she sits here willingly. Slavers had tried to take her daughters. Daughters just now blossoming into womanhood.

The one left alive, he had admitted to dosing the girls with mage bane, enough to keep them docile and afraid. Jayla has never felt rage like this in her life. Her spirits, they slip and slide in and out of her when she needs them. Today, she needed the rage.

“You took my daughters and you left them with _scars_.” Erymben stands with his brothers, all of them called home where it was safe. Where she could keep them safe. Their teachers had come with them, the Ferelden Knight-Captain, the Nevarran dragon hunter, the Force mage, the Mortalitasi, they were all here. And they were all tense.

“What defense can you give?” Josephine is not in attendance today, excused from her duties. The Nobles are all present, those that still prefer her ‘court’ to their native homes. They will all know after today what kind of mother Jayla is.

“You knife-ear loving bitch. You use your station to raise’em up. You make them think they are better – they’re chattel, furniture, worth little more than dust!” Her hands curl into fists, her jaw muscles work beneath her skin.

“They are better than you and all who think as you do.” She’d stood without knowing, and glides across the dais to crouch before the man left on his knees. The Inquisitor had worn black, a color she refused on many occasions, but today, because her daughters still sleep, their scars only beginning to mend, she wears black. She radiates heat as her hand reaches out and gently catches the slaver’s chin.

“What makes you better than them, hm? The shape of your ears?” Her free hand comes up to trace the rounded shell. Her eyes, dark and glowing with malice never leave his face. “You think you will leave here whole. Because I am ever known for my mercy, yes?”

The room around her tenses, everyone is now watching with rapt attention. Jayla never made threats, and she never – never caused harm to her prisoners. She had always taken the route of mercy – even when mercy was a cruelty. That she would mention it today. People shift uneasily.

“You think your ears make you better than my children. What a pity they are so delicate,” taking hold of the cartilage and flesh appendage, Jayla let's rage fuel her and **pulls**. There is surprisingly quite a bit of blood. How long has it been since she’d last had occasion to view a head wound? At least a decade now. The scream barely registers for her, as she neatly sets the ear on a plate made of her own mana. She switches hands on the man’s chin, grip tightening when he tries to jerk away from her.

“Now, now, don’t ruin this with your cowardice. You came for my family – now I come for your life, dear.” The other ear comes off with ease and he howls. She can hear gasps and the beginnings of her nobles becoming ill. Jayla doesn’t give a shit if they are upset by this. They would know.

“Now – what else makes you better? Hm? Have you some hidden strength that we must know about? Or because you took my girls, do you think yourself better because you are a man?” The deadly whisper makes many in the room cringe. They can only hope what they think is coming will not.

Standing up, Jayla effortlessly lifts the slaver to his feet, leaving him suspended with her magic. “Well, do answer me? Are you better than my daughters because you’ve got a cock? Or is it something else?”

Spittle lands on her uncovered right shoulder. The feral look in her eyes only intensifies. “Then we must burn such pride away.”

The scent of burning flesh makes her nose wrinkle. Not for the first time, Jayla is pleased she has never, and will never eat pork. The scent is uncannily similar and that alone is enough to put her off. His screams are a balm on her soul. But it will not bring back the innocence of her daughters. It will not bring back their sense of safety. They will bear that scar for years to come.

A wave of comforting magic keeps the slaver from sliding into shock. She won’t have him die yet. He is not yet allowed to die. But he is unmanned, and he has lost his ears. Pieces of a problem that will never truly be solved. With a flick of her wrist the Slaver is laid out, his skin pale, eyes wild with fear. Her rage still burns, burns so much she drags her fingers down his shirt and watches as small flames eat it away.

“Does your human heart make you better than my daughters? Is _this_ where your superiority lies?”

Armor shifts behind her as her fingers press just under the man’s sternum. Jayla has learned so many things since coming to Thedas. She has learned of spirit bonds and pairs, of the reasons behind the veil. She has been betrayed by her lover and she has faced down a council that would have her tied to them. But she is ruler here, these mountains are hers, these people hers to protect. Hers to hold close so they might flourish.

Her hand sinks into the man. He makes no noises, because she is not entirely cruel. Her magic numbs while it lets her cut into him. It has been years up on years since her eyes had set upon an accurate diagram of the human body. Yet, she unerringly locates his lungs, and from there it is only a little higher. Careful, careful, she can’t nick anything just yet. Her fingers stroke at his frantically beating muscle.

“Is this where our humanity lies? In our hearts? Is _this_ where our corruption lies?” She takes hold of him, careful, calculated, the important parts are all still intact. His eyes are wild, because this now causes him pain. Fear grips him, she can feel the spirits pushing at the veil. Here where it is oldest, she risks much by doing this.

But his actions cannot stand.

“You are afraid. I see it in your eyes. They dart to and fro, the pupils of your eyes pinpricks. My daughters were afraid too. Tell your Maker your sins, if you ever find your way to his side.” Rage lets her pull her arm up, up, up until his ribs burst from their proper places. Rage protects her from damage as she pulls his heart from its resting place.

The splash of blood that would have sent her into a downward spiral of self-loathing and depression only makes her feel relief. The dress will never be worn again, and no one will ever forget the sight of the Inquisitor standing over a body with a heart in her hand.

“Let it be known, no child will be taken from these lands forcibly. Remember that I am **not** a merciful mother. Remember that I know rage and cruelty.” She speaks softly, serenely, and proceeds to drag the body from the hall. “If someone comes after a child in the Frostback mountains again, if someone touches my children _again_ , be aware they will not be commended to the Maker. They will not have a pyre. There will be no dignities for those that enact such grave sins. The crows may have them if they so wish, but the Maker may not.”

She doesn’t stop walking until she is at the gates of Skyhold, her rage flickering the closer she comes. One more task. One more thing for this waste of skin and muscle. The Inquisitor asks no one for help, and none approach her as she kicks the body from the drawbridge. They say nothing when she whispers her hatred into the still heart and throws it as well.

Let them try to take her children. Let anyone try to take her people. She will rain hell upon their heads.


End file.
